by Jill Childs
I will hunch my shoulders and push my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, then press forward towards the water. The waves will crash and fling themselves up the beach, skimming over the sand. They retreat with a low guttural rattle of stones. My nose and cheeks burn with cold.
I know how desperately I’ll want to turn away. I’ll want to climb back up to the house and close the door. I’ll want to save myself. I’ll want to live.
I must bite down on my lip and close my mind. That’s just the body, begging for another chance. The body knows nothing. It’s a fool.
I’ve imagined it all.
I’ll take a deep breath and steady myself, then start to move, one step and then another, until I’m striding forward. No room for regret. No second chances.
The water will pool and press round the sides of my shoes, sliding into the footprints even as I make them. For a moment, I’ll become detached. An observer. Then cold strikes my skin. It seeps through, soaking my socks. The cotton, sodden now, chafes my heel, the arch of my foot, finally my toes.
I mustn’t think. No pause. My strides will lengthen and I will hurry forward into the waves, struggling to keep my balance in the force of the rushing water. My trousers flap and drag. A wave knocks me sideways, a shock of bitter cold and wet round my groin, my stomach. I’m shivering.
In an effort of will, I will throw myself forward, pitching full length. My arms, weighed down with water-logged jumper and coat, will flail as they try to swim. I will be three-years-old again, your age, struggling in the water, chin up, eyes wide, frightened but determined.
Maybe I’ll sense someone there, to the side, urging me on. Shouting. Is it encouragement or scolding? Is that my father, swimming beside me, come to rescue me? I’ll twist my head to look as salt water crashes into my mouth.
The blackness will roll in overhead. My arms and legs will quickly become exhausted, numb with cold. Water will close over my face, slapping my cheeks, filling my nose, my ears, my throat.
I will splutter to the surface, splashing and kicking, my movements slower now. A moment of sheer, desperate panic.
I will struggle and rise in the water and somehow find myself looking back.
Above the shore, the cliff looms. Perched on the top, silhouetted against the dark sky, the solid square of The Conifers will gaze back at me.
It will blur and shimmer as water closes over my head. I will tip back my face and the water will slide away from my skin one final time.
Light will glint on a window, right at the top of the house. I’ll try to lift my exhausted arm. Is that you, Lucy, that small white face pressed to the glass? Can you see me as I wave goodbye? Don’t be frightened, my love. I’m not afraid.
My last sight is of you, my beautiful daughter. I’ll be there within you, all your life.
Love. That’s what survives, you see. Love.
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[CN]A letter from Jill Childs
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I want to say a huge thank you for choosing to read The First Wife. If you enjoyed it and want to keep up to date with all my latest releases, just sign up at the following link. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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[link to come] Sign up to Jill Childs’s email list
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How close are you to your oldest friends?
Are you still in touch with classmates from high school, perhaps even primary school? Are any of those friends so close that, even if you hadn’t seen them for years, you could turn to them for help at a time of crisis?
Some of my very best friends are from school. We don’t have a lot in common, at least on the surface. Like Sophie’s and Caroline’s, our lives went in different ways: we’ve pursued different careers, enjoyed different lifestyles and lived in different places, even in different countries. But we know each other through and through and, however far apart we’ve been, we’ve always written to each other, sharing highs and lows, achievements and disappointments.
I’ve thought a lot about these friendships since having children. Every parent has to face the sobering thought of what might happen if our children were suddenly orphaned. Who would look after them? If my husband and I didn’t have family, I know I’d want to entrust our girls to these life-long friends.
But that also set me thinking. What if those friends weren’t all they seemed? What if they’d changed so much over the years that I no longer recognised them? Or what if I were the one who’d changed, who became profoundly untrustworthy?
It was out of these thoughts that The First Wife was born.
I hope you loved The First Wife. If you did, I would be very grateful if you could write a review. I’d love to hear what you think, and it makes such a difference in helping new readers discover my books for the first time.
I love hearing from my readers. You can get in touch on my Facebook page or on Twitter. Thank you!
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All best wishes to you and yours,
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Jill
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful editor, Kathryn Taussig, and all the team at Bookouture.
Thank you to my brilliant agent, Judith Murdoch, the best in the business.
Thank you, always, to my family for all their love and support.
And a special thank you to my Aunt, Sheila Mary McGivering, for always believing in me, right from the start: for my first desk, my first typewriter and so much more. This one’s for you.
